


Recovery Room

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-12
Updated: 2004-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:35:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Recovery Room

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Recovery Room by Leslie Fish

_Recovery Room_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

**France, 1929**

Sean Burns caught himself whistling a passage from 'Swan Lake' as he rolled the cart down the hallway. He stopped as he reached the targeted door, remembering that Methos didn't care for that particular piece, and knocked gently. It was several seconds before the familiar voice replied: 'Come in.' 

Sean obligingly opened the door and pushed the cart through it. His first glance recorded Methos lying on the bed, having taken off his shoes, coat and tie, but nothing else. The radio was on, softly playing some slow jazz, doubtless from a Paris source. Sean rolled the cart to the bedside, reached for the cover of the main dish and pulled it off with a flourish. 

'Duck a l'Orange!' Methos marveled, sitting up. 'Oh, excellent! Hmmm, and is that a rose wine with it? How decadent - and delicious. Oh, but I can't finish all this myself.' 

'That,' said Sean, pulling up the nearest chair, 'Is why there are two service sets. I didn't plan on leaving you to eat alone.' 

He flipped the near napkin onto his lap, reached for the wine and poured their glasses full. Methos promptly set about carving the duck. 

The food was indeed delicious, and neither of them spared time from it to speak until they were down to the dessert cakes. 

'Trust you to have an excellent cook at your hospital,' Methos broke the amiable silence, 'Even unto the pastries. It's worth spending a few days here, just for that.' 

'It's another trick for luring my patients out of their own worlds and into the common one,' Sean commented, spearing the last of his cake. 'Louis costs me enough, but he certainly earns his pay.' 

'Amen.' Methos sat back and thoughtfully finished his wine. 'One thing I'll say for the modern age: it's produced some excellent recipes.' 

That, Sean considered, was an excellent opening. 'What, your home tribe knew nothing of cooking?' he ventured. 

Methos frowned only briefly. 'Very little,' he admitted. 'We tended to eat our fruits and vegetables raw and only cook the meat. No doubt that was good for the health, but it made for a rather plain diet.' 

'What sort of foods did you have?' Sean nudged, pushing the cart aside so he could hitch his chair closer. 

'Wild game and domestic cattle,' Methos considered, 'And everything that grew in the forest. We weren't properly farmers but herdsmen, riding an annual circuit around a fixed territory. We knew where the stands of fruit-trees and nut-trees were, and the wild grapes...' 

He set down his glass, leaned back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. 'I've been remembering it all afternoon: my childhood, my first people, that life...that world. It was so innocent and beautiful...and it's so long gone.' 

Sean leaned forward, trying to catch Methos' eyes. 'Then why - and when - did you forget it?' he asked gently. 

Methos frowned again. 'Because of all that came after,' he said quietly. 'Sorrows, then horrors. I couldn't bear the contrast, I suppose.' 

_Start there._ 'What was the first sorrow you remember?' Sean prodded. 

'Leaving them...' Methos expression darkened a fraction. 'No, that wasn't so bad, really; I'd been told for years that when I was old enough I must go to the temple. I'd been prepared for it; the tribal priestess had taught me to read, and I loved reading - read all the scrolls she had, and was hungry for more.' 

'How old were you then?' 

'Fifteen winters. I remember going into the old temple, the priestesses there welcoming me, the feast that night...and all the testing the next day. They were delighted with my learning, that I could read so well, and do figures. They had so many scrolls, I thought I'd be all winter reading them. I wasn't upset when my tribe packed up tents and rode away...' 

Methos shifted restlessly, then sat up, picked up his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. 

'They didn't tell me until spring that they were sending me far away, down to Crete, to the school in the palace at Knossos. I didn't realize that it would be years before I saw my tribe again.' He grimaced. 'By then they'd hammered it into me that I had duties as a young demigod, a Child of the Goddess. I didn't realize all that it meant.' 

'What did it mean, really?' Sean pressed. 

'Duty, duty... taking care of mortals. Being their arbitrators, teachers, advisors, leaders...being the literate people, us and our priesthoods. They worshipped us, but we worked for our keep.' Methos' gaze wandered toward the ceiling again. 

* * *

_Even the great palace at Knossos, even the festivals and the spectacle of bull-dancing, even the vast library and all the incredible learning, all of it could become boring after a time. The knowledge that he would be 'made immortal' on his 25th birthday - 'at the height of your powers' - and thereafter would have a temple and priestesses of his own held no great appeal. He would have to wait another five years for that, anyway._

He'd been too long away from Scythia, from the refreshing chill of winters, from the vast stretches of deep forest and open plain, from the simplicity of life following the herds around the cycle of the year. Most of all, he'd been too long away from his own people, his family and his tribe. 

Methos was miserably homesick, enough that his schoolwork began falling off. 

His teachers eventually noticed that, and agreed to send him back to his tribe for the summer - provided that a teacher, a full-fledged demigoddess named Danika, came with him. She brought no less than three hampers full of scrolls for him to study during the voyage, and Methos dutifully read and learned, but he sneaked away every moment that he could to peer off the ship's bow and mark their progress over the sea. Not even Danika's scolding could draw him back to the books as they sailed through the straits and into the Euxine sea. The best she could do was draw his attention to the nature and behavior of the dolphins that playfully accompanied the ship. 

Finally - finally! - they landed at the river-mouth port and took carts for the inland journey. Methos insisted on riding one of the horses, even though his gangling size made it difficult to keep his feet from dragging on the ground; the sturdy little horse could manage his weight, anyway, and he could ride far enough from Danika's wagon to escape from her constant lectures. 

It took four days of travel, through increasingly familiar land, before they finally reached the old temple. Methos almost cried with joy to see it again. 

His happiness was blemished by seeing the old priestess. He was shocked at how much she had aged in just five years. All her cooing and marveling at how he'd grown only brought back to him the grim facts of mortality; mortals aged and died, while he would be initiated into immortality and would go on forever. He alternately fretted and feared to see his old tribe again. 

When they arrived, a long string of wagons accompanied by the herds and riders, he saw changes again. Boys he'd grown up with now had wives and families of their own, children who had been toddlers at his departure were now riding their own horses. The adults had grown older, grayer, fatter. Everyone was delighted to see him again, remarking on his height and prophesying great days to come when he was established in the temple as their very own demigod. Methos answered as politely as he could, quietly dismayed at how his relationship with his own people had changed too. 

Nowhere in the crowd of visitors did he see his mother. When he finally asked where she was, the silence was eloquent. 

Eventually the tribal healing-woman stepped forward, eyes downcast. 'I grieve to tell you that she died of a fever eight moons ago,' she said. 'I did my best for her - we all did - but she faded and died. We kept her belongings and brought them for you...' 

Methos said nothing, only followed the woman on numb feet as she led him to the familiar wagon hitched some little distance away. The horses, he saw, were new; everything else was the same - no, showing faint signs of neglect where no one had done repairs in the last eight months. Wordlessly Methos climbed into the wagon, ducking his head under the lintel of its roof, and found only darkness. His hands knew the way to the hanging lamp, but it took several strikes with the flint and pyrite to make it light. 

The sight that greeted him was achingly familiar, but with heartbreaking changes. There were Ametha's cups and bowls and neatly folded clothes, there was his old red blanket, there was the bedding spread out in welcome - and all of it was peppered softly with dust, silently eloquent of time's passing. The very oil in the lamp smelled stale. 

His mother was eight months dead. She would never see him as an adult, a full-fledged demigod, installed in the temple as caretaker of the people. She had raised him, cared for him and loved him dearly, and died before she could see her work crowned with his achievement - before he could even see her again. 

Methos lay down on the waiting bed, curled up in the tattered old blanket, and gave himself over to mourning. Images of his mother marched out of memory: Ametha cooking dinner over a fire near the wagon, washing clothes in a stream, pointing out the stars and their names, breaking up fights with other children, singing work-songs or lullabyes or ballads of marvelous tales, holding him in her arms and rocking him to sleep... He recalled and treasured all of them as the sobs wracked him and tears wet his cheeks. 

Ametha! Mother...my true mother... 

_He felt an almost savage resentment against the unknown goddess who had birthed him, given him his destiny and saddled him with a horde of duties, but had never cared for him nor even met him._

What of my duty to Ametha? 

_He should have been here - in the wild plains and forests of Scythia - to comfort her when she died, not away in the soft lands of Crete indulging in study and learning his future work, his new life, his endless duties._

The treacherous thought sneaked up on him: he didn't want to be a demigod after all. 

* * *

'Not surprising,' Sean murmured. 'The weight of responsibility...' 

'The distance from humanity,' Methos corrected. 'I could feel that distance already, among my own people, because I'd been gone five years and returned to them halfway a god. Ametha had been my...anchor, compass...connection. When she was gone, my tribe - people I'd grown up with, lived among all my life - kept me at arm's length. They were preparing me for godhood, and I didn't like it.' 

'Was there no camaraderie among the other Immortals at your...school?' Sean asked. 'Surely you weren't alone there.' 

'There were only half a dozen of us.' Methos' gaze turned far away. 'All of them had been there longer than I - years longer. Our training took a decade, at least. We were all at different stages, different skills... It should have drawn us closer together, made us more of a family, but there was rivalry instead.' Methos shook his head sorrowfully. 'Stupid, childish... Amaranthe was vain and self-absorbed. Pythos was concerned with bedding anything that would stand still for him. Dianeros studied determinedly, but only because he was ambitious, greedy for the power he would wield as a demigod. Magnesa... Gods, I haven't remembered their names in millennia!' 

'Perhaps because they disappointed you,' Sean guessed. 'You had given up your tribe for them, and they gave you no real replacement.' 

'No family,' Methos sighed. 'I looked into my future, and saw only isolation and loneliness.' 

'Ah. So what did you do?' 

'I ran away.' 

* * *

_The horses and the wagon had been well cared for after Ametha died, and they made good progress into the rising sunlight. A dozen times Methos looked back, not reassured at seeing no pursuit. He guided the horses over patches of rock, and once for several hundred paces up a shallow stream-bed, knowing that his folk included superb trackers who could follow his trail if he didn't disguise it perfectly. Eastward, eastward, then south just enough to reach the shore of the Euxine Sea: he knew of the lands there. What he hadn't encountered personally, he knew from the excellent maps in the library at Knossos: the Scythian lands, then Sarmatia, then south with the curve of the coast - but not so far as Colchis, where the goddess there might recognize him and send him back to Crete. No, he would go inland until he reached the great river, into the lands of Sumer, and then perhaps further south, then west again. He would like to see the fabled lands of Egypt..._

And how, _a pesky thought nagged,_ Shall you make your living? 

_h well, he could always hunt and gather and fish. No Scyth would go hungry in land with any game. He could eat what he needed and trade the hides for anything else he wanted._

It took weeks of traveling to make him realize that he was lonely, that he missed company and books and intelligent discussion and just plain contact with other human beings. That was why he gladly fell in with the merchant caravan he encountered on the eastern shore of the Euxine Sea. The merchants, a little shy of him at first, soon came to appreciate his skill with the bow; he brought in rabbits, birds and other small game - once even a deer - and his ability helped save the caravan when it was attacked by a small bunch of robbers in the hills. After that he became the good friend of the chief merchant, who told him marvelous tales of the cities along the eastern end of the Mid-World Sea - and promised to sell his growing collection of hides for him when they got to the lands of Phoenicia. Methos gladly agreed to accompany him. He also happily enjoyed the embraces of the merchant's sister and partner, who kept the tallies for the entire caravan. 

When they reached Byblos he had second thoughts; the city was thriving, bustling, and big enough to have several temples. No doubt, there was a goddess or demigod in at least one of them; such would certainly recognize him and eventually send word to Knossos, and then the priests would find him again and drag him back to his duties. He clung to the outskirts of the town, keeping away from the temples, waiting only long enough for the merchant to trade the hides and bring him the money, and then looked for another caravan heading south. 

Canaan was a hodge-podge of prosperous farming-cities and nasty little herding villages, which seemed to have a religious war going with each other. Fortunately, none of the cities had a resident Immortal in any of their temples and the herding-folk had nothing but traveling tent-shrines and sacred bundles to accompany them. Methos felt safe there, and began to seriously consider settling in one of the towns. 

That was when he met Affiyah, and fell in love. 

* * *

'...a beautiful Canaanite girl,' Methos murmured. 'She had a sizable flock, and ambitions to make it bigger, and she was happy to take me for her consort.' 

'Ah, so you settled down with her?' Sean smiled. 'Were you happy?' 

'Very.' Methos closed his eyes, scarcely noticing the tears that trickled out of them. 'It was a sweet and simple life, much as I'd lived in Scythia. I missed books sometimes, but Affiyah and her people enjoyed discussing philosophy, so I didn't lack for intellectual stimulation. I was valued for being the only literate person within miles, as well as for my bow-shooting. ...I only grew restless as my 25th birthday approached.' 

'Why then?' 

'Because, back at the school at Knossos, they'd told me I would be made immortal that year. I was afraid that they'd hunt me down, even in that backwater corner of Canaan, give me my First Death and then drag me off to serve in some temple. I felt it was time to run again.' 

'Then did you abandon your beloved wife?' 

'No! Oh no, I...' Methos drew a harsh breath. 'I did worse. I persuaded her to come with me - bring all the sheep and strike out for new territory, in the Sinai. -Gods, if only I'd known!' 

'Known what? Why was it such a bad choice?' 

'Copper. The Sinai in those days had hills full of copper ore.' Methos pulled his eyes open and fixed them on the ceiling. 'It was Egypt's main source of copper. The royal house - Par'o: Great House - wanted to extend Egypt's rule there, make certain no enemy could cut off their supply.' He ground his teeth. 'To that end, they sent out soldiers to kill any foreigners who ventured close to those hills.' 

'Ah. Foreigners such as you, and Affiyah?' 

'Yes.' Methos paused for a long moment. 'So I got my First Death at the age of 25 after all. And I lost Affiyah. And I wandered through the barrens for uncounted moons, dying of thirst and hunger several times, knowing what I was and cursing my stupidity... I hadn't realized I could suffer so much.' 

Sean pressed a comforting hand over Methos'. 'How did you get out of there?' he asked quietly. 

'I eventually wandered down to the River of Egypt, where more soldiers found me. I looked so pathetic and harmless that they didn't bother killing me, but took me to the royal city, and the royal palace. It was a long enough journey that I learned the language on the way.' 

'And...did you meet with Pharoah?' 

'Yes.' Methos closed his eyes again. 'After the court scribes had fun teasing and threatening me, the Pharoah Djer put in an appearance. I...felt him coming, and I knew what that meant.' 

'You knew?' Sean marveled. 'How extensive was your...ah, pre-immortal training in Knossos?' 

'Very,' Methos said drily. 'That was, after all, the primary school for young gods and goddesses of the ancient world.' 

'Incredible! To think that we once lived like that...' Sean pulled himself back to the main subject with an effort. 'So you recognized the Pharaoh as an Immortal?' 

'And he recognized me. The scribes fell on their faces, howling ritual phrases about 'god-on-earth' and 'lord of the great house'. I was amazed to see a man with that much worldly rule, but then I remembered that Egypt was ruled primarily by its gods - and Djer, being Immortal, was one of them.' 

'How did he treat you?' 

'He was delighted to find me, and for the damndest reason.' Methos smiled, bitterly. 'He'd been ruling Lower Egypt for two centuries, and he was bored to death - literally. He didn't just want another Immortal to replace him; he actually wanted to die.' 

'Oh. And you...obliged him?' 

'No.' Methos' smile grew cold, and unmistakably cruel. 'He was the root cause of Affiyah's death, and I wanted revenge. Besides... He confirmed what I'd learned at Knossos: that the Quickening of a beheaded Immortal would go into the Immortal who stood nearest - only, in those days they didn't call it the Quickening but the soul. I didn't want his soul inside me.' 

'So...you didn't just run away?' 

'No. I waited until he'd taught me all I needed to know about the Great House, and confirmed me as his heir. Then I poisoned him with cobra venom. Everyone else thought he was dead, and they set about preparing his body. I took care to keep injecting him with the poison until they were about to put his body in the sarcophagus; then I let him waken, just long enough for me to tell him what I was doing and why. Then I injected him again, and let them bury him.' 

'Jesu!' Sean whispered. 'How long...?' 

Methos shrugged. 'To the best of my knowledge, he's still there.' 

'Mother of God,' Sean muttered, rubbing his eyes. 'Reviving, only to suffocate...if he ever regained consciousness at all. I suppose he's either still unconscious or gone catatonic, long since.' 

'The next day, I was installed as Lord of the Great House - Pharoah - in his place.' 

'And...did you enjoy it?' 

'Hell, no.' Methos ground his teeth again. 'It was worse than I'd expected, when I was studying in Knossos. Every waking hour of the day, every move I made, so bound up with ritual... I could understand why Djer had come to hate it. One thing I could do was go out hunting, so I did - a lot. Finally my patience paid off; a dust-storm came up, and I managed to lose my guards in it. I made my way to the shore and traded one of my jewels for passage...back to Knossos.' 

* * *

_Of the former students, only Magnesa remained - and she had trouble recognizing him. Their ancient teacher, Ilios, recognized him handily and sighed at the changes. 'If you had taken your First Death here, Methos,' he intoned, 'I daresay it would have been far less painful. What did you learn in Egypt?'_

Methos was startled for an instant, then realized that word of Djer's death and replacement would have reached Knossos by the next merchant-boat after the funeral. 'I learned that I absolutely do not want to be a god in Egypt,' he said. 'At least, not in the Great House. You can't imagine what a stultifying life that is.' 

Ilios actually chuckled. 'Au-set has no trouble with it, but then, she is supreme goddess-on-earth, and can do whatever she pleases. Did you meet her, while you were there?' 

'No.' Methos dropped onto the nearest chair. 'She reigns in Upper Egypt, and there was some conflict between the two lands at the time.' 

'What a pity you didn't make the effort to resolve it.' Ilios frowned, then shrugged. 'Well, no matter. You were not completely trained, anyway. Will you stay long enough, this time, to remedy that lack?' 

'I will.' Methos waited to feel the burden of duty settle on him, but after Egypt, that didn't seem nearly so heavy. Perhaps it was actual experience, and perhaps he had simply grown up. 'All I ask is, when you finish my training, please do not send me back to Egypt. I've had enough of that land.' 

Besides, he didn't want to be reminded of Affiyah, or the vengeance he'd taken for her. Now that he was a safe distance away, he was shaken at what he'd done. He'd never realized he could be that cruel. 

Then again, he'd never known such pain before.

'Indeed not,' Ilios smiled. 'You know the people of the north shore of the Euxine; surely we will send you there.' 

'Not to Scythia,' Methos winced. He didn't think he could bear to meet his old tribe again, nor anyone else who had known him as a child, not as he was now. 

'Sarmatia, then,' the old Immortal pronounced. 'Now we will resume your lessons in the healing arts.' He reached into a pouch at his belt and produced a thick scroll. 'This is a compendium of all the known medicinal herbs. You must study it until you've memorized them all.' 

Methos sighed with something close to relief as he took the scroll. Yes, he was back to his duties, and his studies, and their very familiarity was welcome. 

* * *

'...So I stayed, and studied, and was content for the next ten years. When the college had nothing further to teach me, they sent me to Sarmatia to be the demigod there. The rest you know.' 

'Yes.' Sean squeezed his hand again. 'When did you start to forget?' 

'After the fall, after...' Methos' grip tightened. 'During the wandering, those two centuries. The contrast- It just hurt too much.' 

'The Bad Time,' Sean labeled it. 'You're sure it was no more than two centuries?' 

'A little less, I think,' Methos frowned. 

'Let me see if I can follow the historical thread.' Sean reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out the folded sheet of note-paper. 'The eruption came in about 1650 BC. Troy fell somewhere around 1200 BC, and by that time you had been safe with your Immortal bandit-gang for about two centuries. You wandered from 1650 to not later than 1450.' He unfolded the paper and held it where Methos could see the dates. 'That leaves approximately 50 years unaccounted for, between the end of your wandering and the time you joined the bandits.' 

He felt Methos go dead still, not even breathing. 

'Old friend, what happened in that time?' 

'I don't know!' Methos spat the words, then drew a fast and ragged breath. 'I... I'm probably wrong about the dates. I didn't pay much attention. I...I think I went a bit mad there. Everything blurs together...' 

_That's the core of the pain._ Sean slid his arm around Methos' shoulders, and noted that the man was trembling. 'Do you remember how you joined the bandit-gang?' 

Methos squeezed his eyes shut and visibly concentrated. 'I remember...bodies, blood everywhere...one of them cutting me down from a-a post of some sort, and myself being so unspeakably grateful...' 

'Was it the aftermath of a battle?' Sean tried. 

'I don't think so...' Methos frowned. 'Something else, but definitely a slaughter.' 

_Cut down from a post..._ 'Who tied you to that post?' 

Methos flinched, panting now. 'I don't know. -A mortal.' He said it in Greek. 

_...tied..._ 'Were you a slave?' Sean asked in the same language. 

'Yes! Yes!' Methos wailed, going rigid. 

_He'll start struggling in another second._ 'Gently, gently now,' Sean whispered, pulling Methos close. 'It's over, and you're safe.' 

Methos subsided into heavy panting, and said nothing. 

'So the Immortal bandits set you free,' Sean went on, 'And you joined them in gratitude?' 

'Yes.' Methos sagged against the bedcover, breathing as if he'd just run for a mile, but no longer tense. 

Sean waited for the immediacy of the memory to pass, but no longer. 'So you were a slave to mortals,' he said, 'And abused, and possibly driven mad by the abuse. Is that when you truly came to hate them?' 

Methos went rigid again, and a thin wail meandered from between his clenched teeth. 

_Don't dare probe for details, not now._ 'Easy, easy. It's over and gone,' Sean recited, massaging Methos' shoulders. 'They're long gone. They can't hurt you anymore. Gently, gently...' 

Slowly, very slowly, Methos relaxed. 'Gone,' he finally whispered, in modern French. '...Far down the past.' 

'Then you got your revenge, long ago,' Sean ventured. 'Why didn't that satisfy you?' 

Methos drew a deep breath, but didn't start trembling again. 'It wasn't enough,' he whispered. 'I keep seeing it, the same old evil - threatening others and threatening me. The rage builds up, and I begin to hate...' 

'Until the hatred compels you,' Sean finished. _What he suffered as a slave must have been horrendous to set this off, but there's more..._ 'Old friend, you said you fled from Scythia because your...elevated state cut you off from human contact. Yet after the fall, you avoided such contact. Don't you see the contradiction there?' 

Methos blinked, looking slightly pole-axed, as if he'd never thought about that before. 'They...changed,' he whispered. 'They weren't what I'd loved, what I needed, anymore.' He took a deep breath and his voice grew stronger. 'Yes, I felt betrayed! How could they do that to themselves, and to me? How could they forget everything and become such beasts - worse than beasts? I would have given my life to their service, and they betrayed me! Damn them all!' 

_Aha!_ 'Face the knowledge,' Sean urged. 'Face the feeling, and see it completely. Leave nothing unseen.' _...Go through the emotion until you wear it out, chew it down from the red to the rind, until it's exhausted and flavorless._

Methos began pounding his fist rhythmically on the mattress. 'Damn them, damn them...' It was a whispered chant that lasted several minutes before it changed. 'Worse than beasts. Vermin. And we killed them like vermin. Gave them back what they were... Gods, I've seen fools call the Bronze Age the 'Heroic Age'! They have no idea. There were no heroes: only better or worse conquerors, slavers, and slaughterers. And we did our share, forced the mirror to their faces, for a thousand years...' Then he frowned thoughtfully, and his fist went still. 

Sean judged that the timing was right. 'But then you stopped. Why?' He knew the answer, but had to make Methos face it. 

'Mortals changed.' Methos blinked again, and wore a fleeting look of wonder. 'They began gaining some of it back, a little... At least orderly societies again, and art and literacy, and some idea of justice.' For an instant he looked startled, as if he'd remembered something. 'There were holdouts: small scattered cultures that hadn't forgotten everything. They trickled ideas back into the larger cultures - which rarely gave them credit for it. Slowly...so very slowly...mortals crept back into civilization again.' Then he clenched his eyes shut. 'But, gods, it's taken so long! 3500 years and more - and we're still nowhere near what we were. No, I don't mean the skills and crafts and scientific knowledge, I mean...the whole belief system, the philosophy, that made it possible for us to live openly among mortals, that made mortal society healthy and happy and free. So long, and still so far to go! Sometimes I despair of living long enough to see it finished. Sometimes I fear we'll never get back to that.' 

'So, rage and betrayal and despair,' Sean considered. 'That's what drives the compulsion, what gives it such power.' 

Methos sighed, and said nothing more. 

'Have you considered other outlets for your outrage?' Sean tried. 'Surely you've noticed that there are plenty of mortals - and not a few Immortals - who are striving to improve the world.' 

''Dr. Livingston, I presume?'' Methos laughed harshly. 'I've seen what happens to idealists. The become targets for the corrupt, and are often killed.' 

'Hmm, but how many of them bother to learn how to fight well?' Sean smiled. 'You could save your bacon, as the Americans put it, and continue to do good works. All the better if you work from behind the scenes, and never become a target at all.' 

'Like Darius,' Methos considered. 

'And myself, to some extent,' Sean shrugged. 

Methos muttered something about 'emptying the ocean with a bucket'. 

'Ah, but enough people with enough buckets, and enough time...' 

'I've tried it, in my time.' Methos squeezed his eyes shut again. 'Exhausted myself trying. I'm so tired of trying, Sean.' 

_So we must add a world-weary fatigue to the causes of the compulsion,_ Sean noted. 'Is it easier to let the compulsion take you every few years?' 

'Yes,' Methos whispered. 'By god, it is. I do my part by killing off a few of the worst examples, and that satisfies it. The negative example... It's hard to be the carrot for the unwilling donkey, but it's easy to be the stick.' 

Sean could see the pattern, and one immediate way out of it. 'Have you considered that there are more effective ways to destroy a social evil - or the influence of a really evil man - than by killing?' 

Methos opened his near eye halfway. 'Name one.' 

'Ridicule.' 

'Eh?' Methos opened both eyes. 

'Make a man - and his actions, and his preachings - into a joke. Then no one will believe him or obey him, and whatever philosophy he's pushing will fall with him.' 

Methos studied the ceiling for a long moment, thinking that over. 'It won't work with Stalin,' he murmured. 'So long as he can command the secret police, people will still fear him enough to obey.' 

'True,' Sean sighed. 'Once a seriously negative example gains absolute power, there's no way short of war to get rid of him. But I was thinking of, ah, lesser demons: bad examples who haven't yet reached that level of invincibility. Or philosophies. You could prevent much, being able to see the danger in advance. Hmmm, and you are working journalist, these days...' 

'I know,' Methos agreed wearily. 'Yes, I'll do my little bit whenever I can. I've done my little bit before this... It's just that the victories are so few, and small, and far between.' 

_Depression too,_ Sean considered. 'It must seem that way to a man alone, but if you were to join with others going in the same direction, you could not only assist each other but share in multiple victories.' 

Methos turned a wry eye toward him. 'You're recruiting for Darius' network, aren't you?' 

'Not specifically,' Sean smiled. 'In fact, I know very little about Darius' work. If anything, I was thinking of the Red Cross.' 

'A worthwhile organization, I'll admit...' Methos went back to looking at the ceiling. '...But I'm rather a loner by nature.' 

'That's part of the problem,' Sean said gently. 'You're isolated: no one to share your victories, and no one to comfort you in your miseries.' 

'Except you.' Methos twitched a quick smile, then looked thoughtful. 'Or are you saying I should fall in love again?' 

'That certainly wouldn't hurt, you know.' _How long has it been?_

'Mortal lovers have a distressing tendency to die out from under you,' Methos smiled thinly, 'Or else notice that you're not aging, and have to be brought into our perilous secret.' 

'Yet there are many who have succeeded at that,' Sean reminded him. 

'And I've had bad luck with immortal lovers.' Methos looked away. 

_A story there... Don't probe yet._ 'That's no reason not to try again.' 

'I know.' Methos was quiet for a long moment. 'Life without some passion or other becomes meaningless.' 

'And if you do not choose some passion to indulge,' Sean reminded him, 'Then some passion will choose you - perhaps without your consent.' 

Methos twitched, seeing the connections to that thought. 'My passion for learning hasn't been enough,' he admitted, 'But I'm far too old and jaded to take up idealism again.' 

'Not even the practical form?' Sean tried, 'Such as Darius does?' 

'Ah, you said you weren't recruiting for Darius.' 

'No, but he's a splendid example.' 

'He is that.' Methos rattled his fingers on the bedcover. 'Perhaps I should go see him again, once my business in London is finished...' 

_Yes!_ Sean held his breath. 

'The problem is that I don't share his faith.' 

'Darius would hardly expect you to become a Catholic.' 

'I mean his faith in human nature.' 

'Ah.' Sean searched quickly for an answer to that. 'Yet he has some reason for believing in it. You know what he was, before...' 

'Oh yes.' Methos sighed. 'Perhaps he'll even convert me, eventually.' 

_If only he can!_ 'And there's still the possibility of love.' 

'I'll think about it,' Methos promised. The finality in his voice made it clear that there was no point pursuing that subject further, not now. 

'Ah, well,' Sean retreated carefully, 'At least you've regained those early memories.' 

'I have, at that.' A ghost of a smile played across Methos' face. 'I daresay I'll be exploring them for awhile.' 

'Write them down in your infamous journal,' Sean suggested, then realized that this was another promising lead. 'For that matter, when was the last time you re-read your oldest entries?' 

Methos got that faintly stunned expression again. 'I can't remember,' he whispered. 

'You might try it now. I believe you'll notice some differences between the man you were then and what you are now.' 

Methos didn't answer, but his look shifted to something closer to fear. 

'Does the thought of change frighten you?' Sean dared. 

'Unforeseen change,' Methos whispered. 'That can get me killed.' 

'The prevention for that is your favorite pastime: study. Learn. This time, the subject will be yourself.' 

'Yes...' Methos grew thoughtful again. 'I know I wasn't always as I am now.' 

Abruptly, his face stretched into a cavernous yawn. 

'Excuse me,' he mumbled, stretching his arms. 'I must be more tired than I thought.' 

That, Sean knew, was the signal to stop. He patted Methos' near arm and sat up. 'I'd recommend a good night's sleep, and a fresh start in the morning. Shall I leave the wine?' 

'Oh yes,' Methos smiled, already looking distracted. 'I don't think I'll need a book to relax me, either; I still have so many of those old memories to go through.' 

'Shall I fetch you a fresh notebook?' Sean offered, hoping. 

'No, not yet.' Methos began unbuttoning his shirt. 'I don't think I'll have the energy for writing...not for awhile yet.' 

'Sleep well, then,' Sean retreated. 'If you need anything, simply ring the bell.' 

'I know. Get some rest yourself, Sean.' 

'I'll try. Good night, old friend.' Sean got up took hold of the cart and rolled it to the door. He glanced back once as he pulled the door open, and noted that Methos was absently stripping off his clothes, still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. 

_Good luck,_ Sean thought, rolling the cart out into the corridor. He was almost hesitant to even think of prayers when considering Methos, who was three millennia older than Christianity itself. He had no illusions of having broken the compulsion so soon, or this easily, but he hoped he had given Methos enough knowledge to weaken its grip. Certainly Methos had the motivation to change himself, to confront his personal demons and defeat them; but could he work through the fear that still clouded his memories and veiled the grim details of what had set his engine of rage in motion? 

_Only a few days before you must go to London. Methos, Methos, you didn't give me much time._

Sean determined to sleep lightly tonight, and listen for the bell, just in case more of the hard truth surfaced in Methos' dreams. 

But nothing happened. The evening was quiet, and despite his expectations Sean slept soundly the whole night through. He was wakened in the morning by nothing more exciting than the tuneless bell of his alarm-clock. He dressed quickly, questioned the night-staff coming off duty and heard of nothing untoward, hurried through breakfast and went to Methos' room. 

A light knock brought no response. Neither did a heavier one. Finally Sean opened the door and called in: 'Adam? Will you be wanting breakfast?' 

There was no reply. A closer look revealed the empty rumpled bed, Methos and his clothes gone, and a note resting on the table under the empty wineglass. 

'Sorry I can't wait,' it said, 'But I've got to hurry off. I'll visit Darius soon. Don't forget our appointment for the same time next year.' 

_Next year?_ Sighing, Sean folded the note and shoved it into his pocket. _Running again. More frightened than I thought._

Well, if Methos needed time to settle the memories, he would have it. Sean had learned to be patient in his long life. 

And Methos had made progress, after all. 

Sean plodded back down the corridor, heading for his office. It was time he phoned Darius and had a long talk with him. 

\--END-- 

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© 2004   
Please send comments to the author! 

09/12/2004 

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